intuitively that he knew what he was doing, that he was a good driver and nothing would happen to them.
She said, “This isn’t the way to Xenia.”
“It’s a short cut”
She knew he was lying but did not want to argue with him. She leaned back in her seat, enjoying the ride, abandoning herself to the tug of the wind at her hair and the excitement of speed. The low-slung car hugged the ground—this was far more exciting than riding in a regular car, far more exhilarating. She looked at his hands on the wheel, saw how he concentrated on the act of driving with all his being. It was as though he and the car were two parts of a single mechanism, she thought.
When he turned from the asphalt road and onto a gravel road, she knew beyond any possible doubt that they were not going to Xenia. He was probably going to take her somewhere in the country and seduce her, she decided. Maybe he would rape her if she refused, or else toss her out of the car to walk home. Well, he had no need to worry. She would give in, if that was what he wanted. If she could give in to Bill Piersall, she could just as easily give in to this man. At least he looked as if he had a better idea of what to do than Bill did.
Besides, she admitted, she was excited. Evidently the boys in Antrim were right, because she was excited and ready for sex. It was ridiculous—she didn’t even know this man. But she knew that she would do whatever he wanted her to do.
The car stopped with a screech of rubber. “We’re here,” he announced. “Get out of the car, April.”
“Where are we?”
“At my house. Do you like it?”
She stared. The house was set back some fifty yards from the road at the peak of a sharp hill, and it was unlike any house she had ever seen in Antrim. The architectural style was dramatically contemporary, somewhat in the manner of Frank Lloyd Wright, and no one else in the area had a house remotely like it April had seen similar homes in the movies and on television. But shoddy one-floor ranch homes were as close as Antrim permitted itself to come to the twentieth century.
This house was startlingly but pleasantly different. Sharp planes of brick and glass thrust themselves at odd angles. A circular courtyard made a mouth out of the house’s front entrance. The landscaping was precisely suited to the house and strengthened the impression that the structure had grown from the ground itself.
“Well? Do you like it?”
“Yes,” she said honestly. “I like it very much.”
“It’s my home,” he said. “The architect who designed it was a classmate of mine at Chicago. Before I was thrown out, that is. I’m glad you like it”
“Do you live with your parents?”
“My parents are dead.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he told her. “I’m not. I didn’t like them. Come on inside, April.”
On the flagstone path leading to the front door, she remembered for the first time that she had been on her way to Xenia. She mentioned this.
“I can’t take you to Xenia,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re running away from home. Now if I helped you run away from home, I would be contributing to the delinquency of a minor. You can’t expect me to do that, can you?”
“Then you should have let me take the bus.”
“But then I didn’t know you were running away. I want to talk to you, April. We’ll sit in my living room and drink a drink or two and you’ll tell me why you want to run away. That’s all. Fair enough?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re being silly,” he said. “Look, you’ve said that you like the house. Wouldn’t you like to see how the inside looks?”
He did not wait for an answer. He took her suitcase in one hand and her arm in the other and led her to the door. He shouldered the door open and led her inside, closing the door after her. “There,” he said. “Like it?”
The interior of the house matched the exterior in the sharpness of its
She said, “This isn’t the way to Xenia.”
“It’s a short cut”
She knew he was lying but did not want to argue with him. She leaned back in her seat, enjoying the ride, abandoning herself to the tug of the wind at her hair and the excitement of speed. The low-slung car hugged the ground—this was far more exciting than riding in a regular car, far more exhilarating. She looked at his hands on the wheel, saw how he concentrated on the act of driving with all his being. It was as though he and the car were two parts of a single mechanism, she thought.
When he turned from the asphalt road and onto a gravel road, she knew beyond any possible doubt that they were not going to Xenia. He was probably going to take her somewhere in the country and seduce her, she decided. Maybe he would rape her if she refused, or else toss her out of the car to walk home. Well, he had no need to worry. She would give in, if that was what he wanted. If she could give in to Bill Piersall, she could just as easily give in to this man. At least he looked as if he had a better idea of what to do than Bill did.
Besides, she admitted, she was excited. Evidently the boys in Antrim were right, because she was excited and ready for sex. It was ridiculous—she didn’t even know this man. But she knew that she would do whatever he wanted her to do.
The car stopped with a screech of rubber. “We’re here,” he announced. “Get out of the car, April.”
“Where are we?”
“At my house. Do you like it?”
She stared. The house was set back some fifty yards from the road at the peak of a sharp hill, and it was unlike any house she had ever seen in Antrim. The architectural style was dramatically contemporary, somewhat in the manner of Frank Lloyd Wright, and no one else in the area had a house remotely like it April had seen similar homes in the movies and on television. But shoddy one-floor ranch homes were as close as Antrim permitted itself to come to the twentieth century.
This house was startlingly but pleasantly different. Sharp planes of brick and glass thrust themselves at odd angles. A circular courtyard made a mouth out of the house’s front entrance. The landscaping was precisely suited to the house and strengthened the impression that the structure had grown from the ground itself.
“Well? Do you like it?”
“Yes,” she said honestly. “I like it very much.”
“It’s my home,” he said. “The architect who designed it was a classmate of mine at Chicago. Before I was thrown out, that is. I’m glad you like it”
“Do you live with your parents?”
“My parents are dead.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he told her. “I’m not. I didn’t like them. Come on inside, April.”
On the flagstone path leading to the front door, she remembered for the first time that she had been on her way to Xenia. She mentioned this.
“I can’t take you to Xenia,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re running away from home. Now if I helped you run away from home, I would be contributing to the delinquency of a minor. You can’t expect me to do that, can you?”
“Then you should have let me take the bus.”
“But then I didn’t know you were running away. I want to talk to you, April. We’ll sit in my living room and drink a drink or two and you’ll tell me why you want to run away. That’s all. Fair enough?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re being silly,” he said. “Look, you’ve said that you like the house. Wouldn’t you like to see how the inside looks?”
He did not wait for an answer. He took her suitcase in one hand and her arm in the other and led her to the door. He shouldered the door open and led her inside, closing the door after her. “There,” he said. “Like it?”
The interior of the house matched the exterior in the sharpness of its
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